Sniffle, Sneeze, Snivel
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: John's got a cold. Where did John get this cold? John got this cold from Sherlock. Attempted!doctor!lock and sick!John. Sequel to The Downed Detective, although can be read entirely on its own.
1. Thanks SO Much, Sherlock Holmes

**Sniffle, Sneeze, Snivel**

John rolled onto his back, drawing an arm over his eyes.

His head was pounding.

His eyes hurt.

His nose was running.

He kept sneezing.

He was exhausted.

His body ached.

He was sick.

He had known he was getting sick. He had known that, and he had _tried_ to fend off the illness before it could really grab ahold of him.

But.

No luck.

The telltale tickle deep within his nose had him fumbling for the tissues on the nightstand. He sneezed loudly, groaning afterwards as he draped the tissue over his face.

He was miserable.

He had decided a few hours ago that he wasn't going to get out of bed anytime in the near future. He was just going to sleep this off. _Except_, he had woken up ten minutes ago, and he hadn't been able to get back to sleep since. His miserable state wasn't letting him fall back asleep. It was... dreadful. Simply dreadful.

He rubbed his nose before crumpling the tissue, tossing it back onto the nightstand. He was slowly collecting a pile of tissues on the nightstand. It was a bit disgusting, really, but the bin was halfway across the room and he had no inclination to get out of bed.

He pressed his fingers against his eyes, rubbing them harshly. It felt like an allergy attack gone seriously wrong; only it was winter and he was sure it was probably a cold. Nonetheless, it didn't make him feel any better.

He sneezed again. This time, the resulting groan was mixed with a few mumbled and slurred curse words, most particularly centering around where this cold could go.

He knew where the cold had come _from_. It had come from Sherlock.

Sherlock had been ill, for the first time that John had ever witnessed, with some cold-flu type thing. And John had made it his personal duty to take care of Sherlock to the best of his ability. Of course, what with Sherlock being Sherlock, that was a remarkably difficult thing to do.

Somehow, Sherlock had gotten better.

And no more than on the day that Sherlock was out of bed for the first time since being sick, John ended up nearly vomiting all over the kitchen from the smell of the Chinese take-away that they had just picked up.

Needless to say, John had completely skipped out on food and shut himself tightly up in his bedroom.

That had been nearly five hours ago.

He rubbed his nose again, sniffing hard. He was... so miserable. He wondered if Sherlock had felt like this because, while Sherlock had exuded sick, he hadn't exuded miserable. Not that John noticed. Not that Sherlock had even wanted to admit that he was sick in the first place. Not that Sherlock ever really exuded anything less than smartarse-

John sneezed again.

A strong shiver seized his body and he pulled the duvet over his head, muffling his groan.

Sherlock was probably just all pleased with himself. He had gotten better _and_ gotten John sick all in the same day. Good for him.

John rolled over, looking towards the window. It was snowing. Ironic, wasn't it? He, silly enough, wanted to go walking hand-in-hand with his girlfriend in the snow. Maybe walk through Trafalgar Square or Hyde Park. Of course, this was all under the pretense that he actually _had_ a girlfriend. Which... he didn't.

He sneezed again.

"Sherlock..." he groaned, pressing his arm over his eyes. He took care of the detective and what did he get in return?

Sick. He got sick.

What a wonderful thank you.

* * *

**I finally got the first chapter of this uploaded. So sorry for the delay!**

**Favs and follows are grand, and reviews are even better! Thanks!**


	2. Are You Being Funny, Sherlock Holmes?

John did not appreciate the late night dash to the toilet when the nausea kicked in later. It was something that he had been hoping to omit, hence the avoidance of dinner, but no such luck when it came to illness forged from Sherlock.

Speaking of Sherlock, the consulting detective was currently sprawled out on his bed, barely visible through the caccoon of blankets. Lucky sod; at least someone got to get some sleep in this house.

He curled his fingers into tight fists, clenching and unclenching his fingers against the stomach pain.

He was _miserable_.

Absolutely miserable.

* * *

"John?"

John forced his eyes open, trying to find the source of the one voicing his name. He blinked slowly, trying to form a picture through the gloom. He realized, after a short moment, that he was still in the bathroom. He must have dozed off after slumping back against the wall. He noticed, after another moment, that Sherlock was standing a few feet away.

"What..." John rasped, trying to sit up. Pain curled into his stomach, causing a slight gasp to make itself heard and he hurriedly drew his knees to his chest. The uncomfortable, sick feeling obviously hadn't gone away yet.

The bathroom was suddenly bathed in artificial light, too bright and hurting his eyes.

John drew his arm over his face to block out the light, biting his lip against the photosensitivity.

"What are you doing up?" Sherlock asked, squinting down at John. He had clearly just crawled out of bed; his hair was a wild disarray and his eyes were red from sleep. Not to mention that he was simply in his t-shirt and pyjama pants, not even having bothered to throw on his dressing gown.

"I could ask the same thing..." John murmured, wrapping his free arm around his knees. Part of him wished that Sherlock would just go back to bed. His stomach was settling more towards churning rather than flat-out pain, and he didn't know if he could continue to force back nausea without terrible consequences.

"What does one generally do in the bathroom, John?" Sherlock asked over a large yawn that brought automatic tears to his eyes. He blinked them away sleepily, raising his hand to rub the back of it against his eyes.

"Oh," John muttered, trying and failing to ignore the rush of awkwardness that crashed over him. "Sorry." With that, however, he didn't try to move.

Sherlock shuffled his feet against the cold linoleum of the bathroom. "You're ill."

"Thanks to you," John said, unable to stop himself.

Sherlock shrugged idly. "Are you going to be sleeping here for much longer or shall I wait? I'm tired."

John resisted the urge to retort that he was exhausted _and_ miserable. "Give me a second," he muttered, grabbing ahold of the counter and gently coaxing himself to his feet. He ignored the sensation in his stomach and the way that the world was spinning and carefully headed for the door.

Sherlock's eyes were on him, ever analyzing, and John couldn't help the red-hot flash of embarrassment that he felt as he stumbled. He barely managed to catch himself against the hallway wall, groaning slightly to himself.

"Your symptoms progress quite quickly, doctor," Sherlock muttered, before he closed the bathroom door.

John swallowed and rather hoped that Sherlock would hurry up, because he really didn't want to vomit in the hallway. He would have to clean it up. He did not want to clean it up.

He, by some minor miracle, managed to fight back the nausea until Sherlock had opened the bathroom door. Then, however, he pushed past Sherlock and made hastily for the toilet, barely managing to avoid vomiting on the floor.

It took Sherlock huffing in distaste to make John realize that he was still being watched.

"What... what _are_ you doing...?" John gasped, raising his head to look at Sherlock.

"Assessing your symptoms."

John groaned, dropping his forehead against the toilet seat. His forehead was covered in sweat. It was actually most of his body sweating, to be honest, as John could feel his pyjama shirt clinging to his back in an uncomfortable way.

"Please," John gasped, "go back to bed..."

"You should go back to bed as well," Sherlock retorted.

John seized the moment as a perfectly plausible time to vomit again. When he resurfaced, his retort was "_I am a little busy here!_"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and turned back for his bedroom. "Try to keep it down," was his remark as he flipped the light off again.

Try to keep it down? Was Sherlock just trying to be intentionally punny? Either way, John thought that he hardly deserved it. He had had the tedious task of cleaning of Sherlock's vomit from the duvet, when he'd had that stupid migraine, and now Sherlock was telling him to _keep it down_?

John swallowed back the urge to be sick again, squeezing his eyes shut.

Of all the people, he _would_ be the one to get sick from taking care of someone who wouldn't return the favour.

Oh well. No matter. John Watson was a resilient man. He could take care of himself.

* * *

**OH THIS IS FINALLY OFF HIATUS. CREATIVITY. YES. I _finally_ have an idea for this story!**

**Your thoughts, as ever, are highly appreciated! Thank you!**


	3. Sherlock Holmes, Helpful? Not Really

"Sherlock..." John groaned.

It took a few seconds, but the consulting detective, clad in inside-out t-shirt, pyjama pants, dressing gown, and safety glasses, appeared in the bathroom doorway.

"What, John?" He crossed the bathroom and unlatched the window, pushing it open. "Honestly, can't you take care of yourself?"

John shuddered when the sudden cold air rushed into the bathroom. "C-Close-" he gasped, curling up. "-the window!"

"The bathroom smells of vomit, John. I don't care to close the window."

John groaned, reaching for the counter. He hauled himself to his feet, shivering, teeth chattering as he did, immediately turning for the window. He wrenched it closed, wrapping his arms around himself.

"What _do_ you want, John?" Sherlock asked tartly.

He honestly didn't even know _what_ he wanted. Sherlock was his flatmate, Sherlock was a close, physical presence... but one that wouldn't give any comfort. John didn't know _why_ he had bothered to call Sherlock ino the bathroom.

"... N-Nothing," John stammered, shuffling towards the door. He desperately wanted to go to bed and get some proper sleep, but his stomach was still churning. Was it too much to ask Sherlock to go to Tesco's to pick up an antiemetic? Probably...

"You should rest," Sherlock murmured from behind him.

John didn't look back, just focussed on not tripping or walking into the kitchen table. "I c-can't..." he mumbled.

"Why not?"

"My stomach," John groaned, managing to stumble to the sitting room and flop onto the sofa. The world was met with a dizzying sensation and John _hated_ it; he'd just gotten to the sitting room, he didn't want to vomit again.

"Take something and go to sleep," Sherlock retorted, taking a seat on the barstool in the kitchen. He messed with something on the Bunsen burner in front of him, the blue flame sparking up again. So, that was the reason for the safety glasses...

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock sighed heavily. "What?"

"I need..." John swallowed. "I need a bucket."

Sherlock looked at him. "Don't vomit in the sitting room."

John didn't respond that he was about to, instead just pressing his hand over his mouth. Sherlock must have decided that a bin was better than the floor, because John felt the rubbish bin being thunked onto his lap. He couldn't respond right away, but after the latest round of his stomach upheaving, he managed a weak _thank you_ to the detective.

"You _need_ to rest," Sherlock said. John realized that Sherlock was still standing awkwardly in the kitchen door, where he had retreated as John had vomited.

"Can't..." John whispered, setting the bin down quietly. "Ugh..."

"At least lie down."

John groaned, carefully stretching out across the sofa. It wasn't comfortable and he wished that he had his pillow and a blanket, or the afghan from the back of the chair, but it seemed like too much effort to get up and get it now.

But then... he didn't have to. A blanket was suddenly thrown across his body and John's eyes snapped open, looking at the detective looming over him.

"I'll get your pillow. Just relax."

John sighed heavily, closing his eyes again. "... Wait, relax?" he echoed, but Sherlock was already out of the room. Was Sherlock really getting him his pillow?

The answer was yes, because, moments later, John was subjected to a face-full of fabric that was his pillow.

"Thanks," John mumbled, rearranging the pillow.

"Is there anything else?" Sherlock asked, in his tone of annoyance.

John hesitated. He really wished that they had some ginger ale or peppermint tea around, to settle his stomach. Not to mention the fact that an antiemetic would be _great_-

"John."

John looked studiously at the ceiling. "Could you go to Tesco's?"

Sherlock sighed. "What do you need?"

John flickered his gaze towards the detective warily. "Does that mean you will...?"

"Just tell me what you need," Sherlock stated.

"Ginger ale or peppermint tea... Something to stop the vomiting, and picking up more paracetamol couldn't hurt..."

"Anything else?"

"Er..."

"Just tell me."

"C-Could you get me the paracetamol... from the bathroom? I think I've vomited it all up..."

Sherlock made a noise of disgust. "Thank you for that information," he muttered, but his footsteps were retreating and John knew that he was walking back to the bathroom.

They returned a moment later. "Can you manage _not_ to vomit on the floor while I'm out? While statistically unlikely, there's the horrendous possibility that you could choke on your own vomit. I really do not want to have to come home to that."

"Might be traumatising?"

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "But what I am supposed to do with your body?"

John snorted, which didn't go over entirely well with his pounding headache. "Experiment, I'd imagine."

"Hm..."

"Probably leave my body on the curb afterwards..."

"Don't be silly, I'd take your body to the morgue afterwards." Sherlock set the bottle of paracetamol on the coffee table. "... At some point."

"At some point..." John echoed. "That makes me feel better."

"Be back in a bit," Sherlock announced, picking up his coat.

"Don't stay out too long..." John mumbled.

Sherlock slammed the door on his way out, and John didn't hear Sherlock descending the stairs over the sound of his own vomiting.

* * *

**Well, Sherlock's not the best doctor, nor is his attention focussed entirely on the sick patient. Doctor!lock... I promise.**

**Reviews are appreciated. Thanks!**


	4. Sherlock Holmes Can Shop and Cook?

"Here," Sherlock announced, thumping a box of tissues next to John.

John looked up wearily. He had been resting his forehead on the toilet seat when he had heard Sherlock re-enter the flat. He hadn't bothered to look up, expecting Sherlock to drop the shopping bags onto the floor without a word and return to his experiment.

However, Sherlock had walked into the bathroom, now thumping the box of tissues onto the floor.

"Oh, yeah, thanks... Forgot to mention..." John murmured.

"Nasal drainage is disgusting, John. Do try to contain it into tissues."

John would have laughed, if he didn't feel so miserable. Sherlock couldn't just say _snot_ like a normal person, could he?

"I bought what seems to be a reliable brand of an antiemetic. I wouldn't know, as I've never had to test such things, nor did you suggest it to me while I was profusely vomiting."

"Didn't I...?" John muttered, trying to think. Why hadn't he? Perhaps it had been the panic of Sherlock texting him and saying that he couldn't stop breathing, that his nose was bleeding and there was blood all over the bathroom-

John turned his attention back to the toilet, vomiting again.

"There's nothing left in your stomach," Sherlock commented. "Vomiting up bile is-"

"Disgusting," John interrupted, sitting up slightly. "Give me the damn... vomiting stuff," he muttered, rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth.

Sherlock handed him the bottle of syrup. John measured out the correct amount and swallowed the cupful of medication down, cringing at the taste of fake-flavouring against his taste buds. Now, as long as he could keep this down long enough for it to take effect...

"What else did you get...?" John mumbled. He really hoped that Sherlock would go on about something that he had bought, or something that had happened in the queue at the store, anything normal, that would keep John's mind off of vomiting until the antiemetic worked.

"Applesauce," Sherlock started, but John interrupted again.

"Ah, no, don't talk..." He swallowed. "Don't talk about food right now..."

Sherlock sighed. "I debated over two different brands of antiemetics. I settled on this simply for the fact that it said _doctor recommended_."

"Well, that is a good thing..."

"I also bought another bottle of paracetamol, just in case you decide to use the last of it for the purpose of defeating this... illness." Sherlock placed the box of medication into the counter, placing the antiemetic alongside it. "I went to the library and checked out a few of the books that you like to read, Shakespeare and war stories and that one guy who writes the really sappy romances novels-"

"Nicholas Sparks?" John supplied.

"Yes, the man who has nothing better to do than write romantic drivel that women like to read."

"Sherlock," John muttered, sitting up straighter, "I like _one_ book by him. And I was introduced to it through a movie, so... stop making fun."

"I'm not making fun; I simply don't understand why a grown man of military standards such as yourself could read such pointless rubbish."

"It's only rubbish to you. He's insanely popular."

"Further proof that humanity is degrading."

"Yes, okay, Sparks, what else?"

"Patterson. Oh, and some apparent mystery involving Scotland Yard of the 1800's. I'm sure it's a complete waste of paper, but I thought perhaps you'd like it."

"Oh... Okay. Sounds good..."

"I also checked out all of the Bond movies that were available at the time being, as well as _Dexter_, but that's for me."

John looked up. "You... You like _Dexter_?"

"It's really quite the perfect scenario. The man isn't the most intelligent when it boils down to means or meditation, but it is really quite the perfect cover-up. A murderer, but a police officer... It's an interesting concept, even if the blood splatter is nothing more than, quite obviously, badly mixed red paint."

"Is _this_ the crap telly you watch at two in the morning?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Occasionally."

"Thought the flat smelled like popcorn one morning..." John murmured.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock retorted. "Speaking of popcorn, can I now continue on telling you what I bought you on the trip that _you_ sent me out on?"

"I suppose..."

"Applesauce, ginger ale, freeze pops, coffee, peppermint tea, yoghurt, ice cream, soup, and, oh, cakes from Speedy's."

John blinked. For someone who never went shopping, Sherlock was very... thorough. (John was _not _complaining.)

"You should go shopping more often," John murmured. "You bought things that I didn't even remember to mention..."

"Yes, well, unlike you, I know what can be useful."

"Useful for flu?"

Sherlock turned for the door. "It wasn't a terribly difficult leap, John. Soft foods, easy to eat and light on the stomach."

John smiled faintly, slowly getting to his feet.

"Did you want me to make you some soup, then? Since the antiemetic seems to be working..." Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John, expecting an answer.

"Er... Sherlock... can you even _make_ soup?"

"It's not difficult. You seem to forget that I've lived on my own for the past fifteen or so years."

"Yeah, don't know how you're still alive..." John muttered.

"Just go sit down," Sherlock said, waving John away. "I'll put soup on."

John followed Sherlock's advice, curling up on the sofa. "Glass of orange juice would be great, too..."

"Fine. Give me a few minutes."

"Mind your experiments. I don't want... liver or-or whatever you're experimenting on in my soup..."

"John. Just let me cook."

John sighed, drawing his blanket over himself. Sherlock cooking...? John couldn't help but worry.

* * *

**No offense intended towards Nicholas Sparks, anything related, or any fans. I feel like Sherlock would hate the really romantic stuff that I think tends to be Sparks's writing. =p As for _Dexter_, I got the idea that Sherlock might like the plot. I do not own anything Sparks related, I do not own _Dexter_, and I, as usual, do not own _Sherlock_.**

**More doctor!Lock will occur as John gets more ill (which he will... at least, slightly). **

**Reviews are appreciated. Thank you!**


	5. Sherlock Holmes, MD?

While he felt better in the afternoon, he should have realized that it was false hope.

He felt _terrible_ when he woke up again, found it to be evening, and immediately regretted the fact that he hadn't slept until morning.

"Sherlock...?" he murmured. Where was his sociopathic, yet comforting, flatmate? Where...? "Sherlock?" he repeated, sitting up slowly.

His head was aching and black dots danced tauntingly across his vision. He swallowed the urge to vomit, shivering as he drew the blanket closer.

"Sherlock...!"

"Honestly, John," Sherlock's voice suddenly said. There was the click of a door latch and John's attention immediately roved to the sound. Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom, his dressing gown draped low over his bare shoulders. "You can't handle yourself for ten minutes while I bathe?"

"Oh... Sorry..."

Sherlock sniffed and straightened his dressing gown, striding across the room. "Your fever's gone up again. You need to take more paracetamol. You could probably take a cool bath, too, but it's up to you whether or not that would help."

As long as the temperature in the bath wasn't cold, it probably _would_ help. As long as the temperature of the water was cooler than John's body temperature, it would help his own high temperature.

"Too tired..." John murmured instead, burrowing further into the blankets.

"Hmm." Sherlock placed his hand against John's forehead.

John was pleasantly surprised, although a trifle more embarrassed than he should have been. "Sherlock..."

"Thirty nine point... seven?" Sherlock mused.

"You can't tell..." John rasped.

"Don't be insulting, John. I have a relative guess. I've never performed an experiment to see what each temperature of a fever feels like on the skin, but I can hypothesize. I'm positive that I'm not terribly wrong."

"You need the thermometer..."

"No, I don't." Sherlock swiped the bottle of paracetamol off of the table. "You, however, need paracetamol." He dumped two pills into his palm and handed them to John. "Take these."

John painstakingly placed the pills on his tongue, picking up the remains of the glass of orange juice from dinner. "Cheers," he mumbled, taking a large gulp to chase the pills down his aching throat. They went down easily enough, but now whether or not they stayed down was a different question altogether.

John opted not to think about it, setting his glass down.

"What else would you like to drink?

"Nothing..." John murmured, settling into his blankets once again.

Sherlock sighed. "Let me rephrase. What else would you like to drink. It isn't a question."

"Just water's fine..."

"Good," Sherlock said, picking up John's glass and walking away. "You're being an exemplary patient."

John groaned, pulling the blankets over his head.

He didn't need Sherlock to remind him that he was the patient. John wasn't used to being the patient. He wasn't used to being taken care of. He was used to being the doctor and taking care of someone else. This was a terrible reversal of roles.

The blanket fell away again, and John was left glaring up into the impassive face of his flatmate.

"Body heat can be retained more quickly by means of covering the head. Don't make the stupid mistake of trying to retain body heat now." Sherlock handed John the glass, which was now filled with water.

John sighed and reached for it with shaking hands.

"Can you manage?" Sherlock muttered.

"Of course I can..."

"Because I don't think you can."

John took a few drinks of the water, although he allowed Sherlock to hold onto the glass as well. It was an slightly awkward experience, but it allowed John to stay hydrated, so he wouldn't complain.

"Thanks..." he mumbled, letting Sherlock set down the glass again.

"Go to my room."

John, who had just closed his eyes, opened them again. "What?"

"You need to relax, and you obviously can't do that on the couch. I'm not sleeping; therefore, the best option for overcoming your illness would be to rest in my bed."

"You need to sleep..." John murmured.

"I'm not going to. Go to bed."

John's resistance was already crumbled; he just wanted to go back to sleep and escape all of this terrible illness. He just wanted to sleep, for ten minutes or so...

"John."

John opened his eyes again (he wasn't aware that he'd closed them this time), looking tiredly towards Sherlock.

"Go to bed," the detective repeated.

John sighed and pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt weak and he stumbled slightly, trying not to fall on his face in front of the oh-so-graceful Sherlock Holmes.

However, Sherlock's hand clasped onto John's shoulder for an instant, hesitantly hovering away after a moment.

"Do not trip, John. I have no particular willingness to pick you up off the floor today. Or any day, for that matter."

"I can manage..." John murmured, taking a careful step. Left foot in front of right... Right in front of left... Left... Right...

John tripped. Sherlock caught him again, awkwardly gripping his shoulder.

"Come on, John, pick up your feet..." Sherlock murmured. "Almost there..."

John found it a bit strange that Sherlock's voice was so comforting. Persuading. There was no 'you're an idiot, but everyone is' tone pervading the words, just encouragement.

It was strange, but John was too tired to think about it.

After they had managed to stumble (well, only John was stumbling) to the bedroom, John collapsed onto Sherlock's duvet. His legs felt like jam and his head felt as though someone had taken a jackhammer to it.

"I'll get a cold compress..." Sherlock murmured, and John listened to his footsteps retreating. Why was Sherlock being so nice? _How_ was Sherlock being so nice and not... self-combusting from it? Not melting? Not- Not- "Here," Sherlock said, after he had returned, placing it on John's forehead.

John shivered and fumbled for the blankets. He knew that anything cool of temperature would help, but it didn't help. He wanted his blanket from his room, the orange fuzzy one that he kept on the top shelf in his closet. He wouldn't ask Sherlock to find it for him, though, because John had made it priority to never let Sherlock find that blanket. Even if it was warm. And cozy. And-

John groaned quietly, pulling the blankets over his head.

"John," Sherlock started.

John groaned again, in exasperation, removing the blankets. "I'm miserable, Sherlock, leave me alone..."

"You're mentally unsound for me to leave you alone. You are going to go back to sleep and I am going to research your condition."

"... Why does that not relax me...?" John murmured.

"I'm simply going to monitor your temperature and levels of sweating, the fluctuation between sweating and chills-"

"I'm trying to sleep..." John mumbled, pulling Sherlock's pillow closer. It was entirely comforting- in a very non-weird way- and John found himself drifting off before he had a chance to dwell further on his sickness.

* * *

**Attempted doctor!lock isn't such a bad doctor!lock. And he doesn't melt when he's nice. It's a win-win. John gets taken care of and Sherlock doesn't melt...**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks!**


	6. The One and Only Worried Sherlock Holmes

John awoke with a start.

His sheets were damp with sweat, his shirt clinging to his back, his heart pounding erratically within his chest. His heartbeat was loud after the silence in his dream.

"Dreaming about the war?"

John flinched.

"It's just me," Sherlock said in response.

"Oh..." John sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Sorry."

"Fevers can cause nightmares."

"I know... I'm a doctor..." John mumbled, scrubbing his hands across his face.

He was so tired. He had been sleeping all this time and he was so tired. He understood what Sherlock had meant about sleeping too much...

"Go back to sleep," Sherlock murmured.

John sat up slightly. "I don't want to..."

"Yes, well, I believe I remember telling you that while I was sick. It didn't matter to you, then, and therefore, it doesn't matter now. Go back to sleep."

John coughed slightly. His throat ached. He was thinking that some water would be nice, or juice, because he had to stay hydrated, and was debating asking Sherlock to get him some. He decided, however, the he ought to get up, anyway, and pushed the blankets aside.

"What _are_ you doing?" Sherlock asked.

"Bathroom... Temperature... Something to drink..." John painstakingly pushed himself to his feet.

He hated being sick. It made him feel weak and tired. His head pounded with an edge of lightheadedness; nausea gnawed at his gut and made him swallow back the urge to vomit every so often. He was photophobic, plagued with hyperacusis, and he was shaking, always shivering.

John took a few steps into the bathroom, sighing heavily. He turned on the tap and ran some cool water, splashing it on his face.

"I'll get you juice."

"Fine..."

John took his own temperature- it was thirty-nine even- before joining Sherlock in the kitchen.

"Here." Sherlock handed John a plastic cup full of orange juice.

John took it. "Thanks." He took a sip, wincing as the acid in the juice burned his throat.

"Are you going to go back to bed?"

John took another drink of orange juice, shaking his head slightly. "I don't think so... I don't want to stay in bed."

"I didn't want to, either," Sherlock retorted darkly, leaning back against the counter. "But you made me. Don't make me make you."

John raised his eyebrows at the threat. Any other time, John would have questioned just what it was Sherlock planned on doing to an ex-soldier that would make him go back to bed, but, right now, he was too tired.

"I'll watch a movie, I suppose... What time is it, anyway?" John instinctually looked towards his watch, but he didn't have it on.

"Two-thirty-seven, in the morning."

"... Oh." It did explain why he felt better, why his fever was down. Granted, he knew he should go back to bed, rather than watch a movie... even if he didn't want to. "I guess I will go back to bed..."

"Good. You're finally choosing the correct response."

John just sighed, again, and set his empty glass down. He had just turned for the sitting room when Sherlock, once again, interrupted.

"I thought you were going back to bed."

"Yes. _My_ bed, Sherlock."

"I would rethink that."

John looked warily at the detective. "... Why?"

"Too far from the toilet."

"... I have a bin."

"If you want your room to smell like vomit."

"I'll open a window."

"Cold out."

"Blankets."

"You're too warm as it is."

John groaned quietly, shivering roughly as though to prove to Sherlock that, no, he was not too warm. "I just want to go back to sleep, Sherlock, leave me alone..."

"You've had a change of heart, then?" Sherlock asked, feigning interest.

John just turned around and trudged slowly back towards the bedroom... albeit if it was Sherlock's bedroom. He just wanted to sleep...

He _had_ had a change of heart. Sherlock's antics exhausted him.

"Do you need anything...?" Sherlock's voice was hesitant, strangely unsure.

John paused, smiling faintly back at his flatmate. "No... Paracetamol and sleep. It's the main cure for flu."

"Alright. If you're sure."

John shuffled back to bed. "I am."

* * *

John clutched the bin close, flinching at the sound of his vomit hitting the plastic lining.

"John..."

John held up a hand, shaking his head. "I'm fi-"

John had, regrettingly, coaxed Sherlock into making him some tea and toast after he had kept the orange juice down. He had been hopeful that a little bit of food would help. He had fallen asleep after eating and...

... he'd woke up vomiting.

It was not pleasant and John had the suspicion that Sherlock had only realized what was happening a half second before it did and woke John up to prevent him from choking on his own vomit.

The detective was hovering uneasily in the corner of the room, his eyes on John as he vomited repeatedly. John knew he was making him uncomfortable. He couldn't help it. It wasn't like he kept trying to-

The vomiting turned to dry heaves.

John was thankful, although he was sure that he would hate it before long.

"Ugh..." he muttered, snaking an arm around his stomach. Of course he would get more vomiting than Sherlock had had. Lucky sod. Okay, neither of them were lucky, John realized, but... it was just so _gross_.

John gagged and drew the bin close again, even though there was nothing left in his stomach. He was shaking, literally shaking. He had been shivering, but now he was shaking. His teeth were chattering, his heart was racing, and the blankets were trembling from his shaking.

Calm. He needed to be calm.

He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly and shakily.

"I'm okay, Sherlock..." he muttered after a moment, aware that Sherlock was still staring at him, still unsure what to do. The awkwardness, literally, oozed from his usually pompous flatmate.

"What do you need?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. "No. Well," he coughed, "maybe the antiemetic. And water. I need to keep water down..."

"Fine." Sherlock turned and walked into the bathroom.

John took another deep breath, pleased that it didn't proceed to make him gag. He exhaled slowly, hesitantly removing his hands from the rubbish bin. If this brief respite continued, long enough for John to get the antiemetic down, the vomiting might have reached its end, for now.

He sighed, placing the bin on the floor. He hated being sick; hated it. He drew his knees to his chest and pressed his face into his hands. Just when he was starting to feel better, too.

"John?"

John looked up towards Sherlock, who had returned with medication and water.

"I'm fine. Bring that here."

Sherlock followed John's instructions, setting the glass of water on the nightstand. "I understand that this is some sort of ploy to get back at me for my saying that I'm always fine, but the difference is that I _am_ always fine, and you're clearly not."

"Yes, because you were fine with your vomiting and migraine and everything else..." John mumbled, taking a sip of water before measuring out the antiemetic.

Sherlock huffed, leaning against the wall. "But why are you so sick-"

"Because of your germs," John interrupted stonily.

"No, why are you so sick _now_, when your fever's down?"

John shook his head. "It's gone back up since I started vomiting."

"Oh." Sherlock stepped forward, pressing his hand to John's forehead. He very nearly immediately removed it, wiping his hand on his trousers with a disgusted look.

John just rolled his eyes, carefully taking another small sip of water. If Sherlock Holmes could not handle a bit of sweat, John had nothing else to say to him.

"Cool compress?"

John nodded slightly.

Sherlock left the room again.

John settled back against the pillows painfully, wincing at the fever aches. He wondered how terrible he must have looked... Sherlock was actually _helping_ and not just watching.

John decided that he must look similar to some of the corpses in the morgue. Because, as he pulled the duvet closer, he decided that he definitely felt like them.

* * *

**And, while John thinks that that's a valid reason for Sherlock to be helping him, it's actually because Sherlock really cares. :)**

**As usual, I love favourites, follows, and reviews. As usual, I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	7. Sherlock Holmes Does Care, After All

As with most fevers, it was an temperature roller coaster ride. One minute, John was sweltering, the next, he was shivering. And it wasn't just _him_; his temperature went from thirty-nine point three to thirty-eight point two to thirty-seven nine and, ultimately, back to thirty-eight six.

It was miserable.

Sherlock knew this, too. John could tell.

Sherlock had been strangely tolerate in the beginning of his illness. Maybe it was because it was the consulting detective's fault that he had been sick. But now, after John had woken up alright at two in the morning previously, had breakfast, invariably ended up on vomiting spree that ending with a lot of dry heaving, fallen asleep, felt better, laughed through a movie, had lunch, fell asleep again, woke up vomiting, paged through a book, skipped dinner, read the newspaper, had a shower, more sleep, more vomiting, more feeling better, and, ultimately, _I hate you for getting me sick!_ over yet another round of dry heaves.

"It's really not my fault," Sherlock muttered, leaning heavily against the door frame of the bathroom. "You talk as though I wanted to get sick and I didn't. It was miserable for me, too."

"This is the closest I'm going to get to an apology, isn't it?" John muttered, shakily getting to his feet.

Sherlock just looked back at him, not exactly frowning. It was clear from the look in his eye that he was not happy, but John suspected it was the illness making him upset, not John himself.

That was something in itself: Sherlock was upset.

"Sorry that I'm being an arse," John muttered, rubbing his eyes.

"You're just tired," Sherlock said immediately.

"I am. But you rarely understand human things, so I thought I better apologize before I hurt your delicate feelings."

"I do not have delicate feelings. Emotions are-"

"Useless, boring, dull, stupid, a waste of time and detrimental to your logic," John reeled off, gathering a cup of water from the tap. "I know."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment longer before he smirked slightly. John offered a hesitant smile in return, starting back for Sherlock's bedroom.

"Are you _sure_ you don't mind sleeping on the sofa?" he asked.

Sherlock had been kipping on the sofa while John was sleeping in his bed. John was quietly pleased that the detective was getting some rest- he had only just gotten over being ill himself- but he hated the fact that Sherlock was sleeping on the couch. John would gladly take the couch if Sherlock wished to sleep in his own room.

"I haven't been sleeping on the sofa," Sherlock replied.

John glanced over his shoulder. "What? You said you'd been sleeping!"

Now his previous I'm-feeling-chuffed melted into I'm-an-idiot feeling, leaving him annoyed and ready to glare at his flatmate again.

"I have been. But not on the sofa."

"Please tell me you haven't been sleeping on the floor," John said, crawling back into Sherlock's bed.

If Sherlock _had_ been sleeping on the floor, John was going to hate himself for the rest of his life. At least, for the rest of the week, anyway.

"It's not entirely uncomfortable," Sherlock said absently. John must had had a look on his face, because Sherlock continued. "Before you get upset, no, I haven't been sleeping on the floor. I've been-" he cleared his throat- "I've been kipping in your room."

"Oh," John replied lamely.

He had no other response. He figured that, since John needed to be closer to the toilet than Sherlock did and thus, sleeping in Sherlock's room, there was no reason that Sherlock shouldn't sleep in John's empty bed.

When John looked back at Sherlock, the consulting detective's eyebrows were raised.

"What?" John muttered, drawing the blankets close.

"I thought you'd be... upset."

"Upset?" John echoed tiredly. "Why?"

"Because you get annoyed when I bother your things."

"My- It's my _room_, Sherlock. I get annoyed when you mess with personal stuff, like my laptop, which is password protected for a reason. Or photo albums or something. You aren't messing with that, are you?" he asked critically, looking up.

"No," Sherlock said. "Just curling up under your blankets and falling asleep."

"Then why would I care?" John muttered, rubbing his nose. "It's not like I have any secrets that you don't know, anyway..."

"Is that permission for me to search through the cardboard box on the top shelf of your closet, behind the blankets and extra pillow?"

John, who had just closed his eyes, opened them again. "No. No, it is not permission. You are not allowed to touch my war stuff."

"I really don't see why not. I'm sure it's just identification tags, medals, photos-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted. "It's personal."

"So you do have secrets."

John closed his eyes again. "It's not a secret... I'm just not comfortable with you rooting through my sentimental things that you'll think are stupid..."

Sherlock grunted. "Well, I'm not rooting through it."

"Thank you..."

"You'll show me one day?"

John opened his eyes (again). "What?"

"What you kept from the war. You'll show me, right?"

"Why would you possibly _care_?" John asked.

He was flabberghasted. He didn't know _why_ precisely; he knew Sherlock had emotions, even if he tried to pretend like he didn't. But... this was a lot of sentiment, John's war mementos, so why would Sherlock care?

"I'm curious."

"Whatever," John muttered, closing his eyes yet again. "Maybe. If you start acting like you care about my life rather than just trying to experiment with it."

"I do care about your life. And, given that I do care, go to sleep. You're getting agitated because you're sick and tired and you need rest."

John sighed and opted not to respond, just snuggled his face closer into the blankets. It took him a moment to realize that Sherlock had said _I care about you_. Not those words, exactly, but he had, hadn't he? Was John hallucinating?

"I'll make sure your fever doesn't go back up," Sherlock said.

"It probably will..." John mumbled.

"I'll take care of you when it does, then."

John smiled faintly. "You'll take care of me...?" he mumbled tiredly.

There was a pause.

"It," Sherlock said shortly. "I'll take care of 'it'. Your fever, that is. Honestly, John, what do you expect from me? I only just got over being sick myself. I'm still drained from the exhaustion and the illness. My mind isn't working as well as it should. You should hear yourself when you're tired."

"I expect you take care of me..." John mumbled.

"Don't get your hopes up."

"You've been taking care of me thus far..."

"It was an experiment," Sherlock said quickly.

"Uh huh..."

John wanted to smile, to taunt Sherlock a bit more about the fact that he was showing _attachment_ to a real, live human being, but he was tired and, like Sherlock had said, he really did need rest.

"... Get some rest," Sherlock muttered.

"Thanks..." John said.

"For what?"

"Taking care of... the fever."

Another pause.

"Yes, well," Sherlock said crisply, "don't get used to it."

John only smiled at the awkwardness in Sherlock's voice, snuggling further into the blankets.

* * *

**John's on the road to recovery... thanks to Sherlock, even if Sherlock would deny that he was taking care of _John_.**

**This story has reached its conclusion, so thank you to all the favourites and follows and reviews!**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks!**


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